


Margin of Victory

by smugrobotics



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Football, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smugrobotics/pseuds/smugrobotics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake is a junior athletic trainer for the Gotham City Rogues. </p><p>Four years ago, while watching the NFL Draft, John's curiosity had been piqued by the thirty-fourth pick, a particularly impressive offensive lineman from Notre Dame University - Bane. </p><p>Now, Bane has been traded over mid-season, becoming the newest member of the Rogues and giving John a chance to satisfy his curiosity. </p><p>Of course, it becomes so much more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive the slight DCU and Nolan!Verse canon mixing. Hopefully you enjoy it as much as I do.

John always gets to the training center a good half hour before everyone else. Well, not _everyone else._ John is pretty sure that Jim Gordon, the head coach, lives in his office. Still, John manages to stumble in ahead of the players, the rest of the coaches, and the other medical and rehabilitation staff. He likes the stillness of the locker rooms, likes to set out his supplies for the day and hear the metallic buzzing break the perfect quiet as he turns on the whirl pools. It’s the perfect way to ease into the chaos that follows. And speaking of chaos…

“Morning, Birdie,” a familiar voice purrs from behind him, a roll of gauze bouncing off his head soon after. 

“Selina,” John sighs in return. He finishes adjusting the controls on the hot tub and stands up. “You’re in earlier than usual.” 

She’s perched on the seat of one of the wrapping stations, legs crossed, and somehow looking lithe and elegant even in her black polo and khakis. When John had first started interning with the Gotham Rogues he hadn’t known what to make of the smooth, contemptuous, wickedly intelligent PT. John had been shaking in his sneakers on his first day, but Selina had walked through the crowd of burly players with such utter confidence that he couldn’t help but be fascinated. Later, when he’d watched her make an offensive tackle beg for mercy on her massage table, he’d been utterly charmed. 

Four years and a promotion from seasonal intern to full team athletic trainer, and it still hasn’t quite worn off.

“Well, it’s a big day today,” Selina says, deftly catching the gauze that John tosses back, “and you know what they say about early birds catching worms.” 

Oh God, will it never end. John fixes Selina with as stern a look as he can muster at five in the morning, pointing a finger in warning. “That was your one for the day, Kyle. No more puns.” 

Predictably, she laughs him off, sliding smoothly down from the table and walking away toward the locker room. Right before she turns the corner, she calls back, “Staff meeting in an hour, John. That is, if you can get your feathers unruffled by then.”

John just barely manages to muffle his snort. It’s never a good idea to encourage her.

Selina is right about one thing, though. It is a big day. _Bane_ is coming today. 

The whole situation is pretty odd. Mid-season trades are a rarity, usually only happening when teams are looking to unload some dead weight before playoffs. A team like the Blüdhaven Shadows trading their star offensive lineman at the zero-hour is practically unheard of, and it’s caused quite a stir, both among the Gotham players, as well as in the media and the rest of the league. Pundits are scrambling to guess at what this will do to their predictions, and other coaches are keeping a careful eye on things, waiting to adjust their own lineups if it looks like Gordon aims to shake things up. John’s just as curious about the new player as everyone else, but not quite for the same reasons.

See, he remembers Bane.

Every year in April, John watches the NFL Draft. Yeah, part of it is his job, but the larger part of him watches because, well, he freaking loves the game, even the parts when there’s not any actual football playing going on. That year, Bane’s name had come up a lot in the pre-draft speculation. His stats were amazing, but the utter lack of information about his background and personality made it difficult to guess which team, if any, would pick him up, so the sports networks felt free to speculate wildly. John had been interested, but not overly, more concerned with whether Gotham was going to snag Harvey Dent like he’d thought. That’d changed when Bane’s name had been called in the second round and ESPN had flashed his picture on the screen.

He was the most hideously beautiful man John had ever seen. 

The picture had been blown up, a stock team photo rather than the professional high definition videos the other draft members had come in to film before day one began. Bane was staring straight into the camera, face devoid of the usual cocky arrogance one saw in rookie hopefuls, and yes, that was interesting, but what had really caught John’s attention had been the scars. 

They were keloids, thick and claw like and everywhere. They sprawled in branching lines across his mouth, over his nose, down his chin, and straight through his otherwise plush lips. John had never seen anything like them, at least not outside medical textbooks. 

The third time that the announcer had repeated which team had taken Bane, it’d finally sunk in and John clearly remembers the pang of disappointment he’d felt. Even though the season hadn’t started yet, he’d already known that Bane was going to be so fucking wasted on the Dos Rios Diablos. It didn’t matter how impressively large the rookie lineman was, or that he was faster than even some of the running back potentials – the Dos Rios quarter back, Sandoval, was absolutely shit. No matter how much space Bane managed to make for him, Sandoval would do jack all with it. 

It sucked, but that was the nature of the draft.

Once the commentators had finished speculating about how Bane was going to fit into the Diablo’s line up and moved on to the next pick, John had fired up his computer and started searching for information on the Notre Dame recruit. He checked message boards, team sites, Facebook – hell, even MySpace – but there had been nothing besides the little John already knew.

John never could resist a mystery and, with the next four years producing little more than additional statistics and game play recaps, Bane remains one of the bigger ones John’s ever come across.

So, yeah, he feels a little like a stalker, but the fact that Bane is going to be on his team, one of his patients, has him kind of ridiculously excited. 

John’s thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of the first players arriving in the locker room. Soon they’ll be getting dressed and coming over to get their ankles taped and braces checked. Then, there will be the medical staff meeting. It was time to focus, and John lets his mind trip away from thoughts of their newest team member and over into professional mode. 

Only another hour or two, and John will be meeting the man himself.

Of course, the first player John sees when he returns to the locker room is their starting quarter back, Bruce Wayne. Wayne seems to like the solitude, too. He usually comes in earlier than all the other players, and often stays later, doing conditioning and weight training exercises late into the evening It’s part of what makes him one of the best QBs currently in the league, and also one of the things that makes him and John get along so well. John respects dedication.

“I heard Dent and some of the others are going to take the new guy out for a drink tonight. You going along?” John asks by way of greeting, clapping a companionable hand onto one of the shoulder pads Wayne is already tied into as he passes. 

“Guess that depends on how hard I get slammed into the ground today,” Bruce buckles one of the side straps nice and tight as he talks, “if I’m alive at the end of drills, I think I’ll manage to limp my way downtown.”

It’s bullshit, of course. John has yet to see a hit that Wayne doesn’t pop right back up from. The QB is nothing if not resilient. He also takes the leadership part of his position pretty seriously. Bruce will be there, faking a smile and buying drinks for everyone around him. John wonders if he’s still the only one who knows it’s an act.

Some of the other players start to trickle in and soon it’s all ankles, and knees, and tape, tape, tape. He’s just fixing the stirrup on Gambol’s wrap when he hears the familiar cadence of Gordon’s voice in the locker room, and a slowly growing murmur of the other players talking. Looks like the facilities tour finished and it’s time for introductions. John grins and pointedly does not rush the rest of the wide receiver’s bindings. He takes his time putting his materials away, and only then does he allow himself to leave the training room and satisfy his curiosity. He spots the new guy immediately. 

John’s used to being around guys a lot bigger than him. He’s up close and personal with men who could snap him in half day in and day out. After the hundredth time of having their sweaty cleat-feet in your face, they kind of stop being intimidating. Usually.

Maybe it’s because he’s standing next to Jim, who’s no taller than John is (a staggering five-foot-eight, thank you very much) but Bane is bigger than he expected. He’s dressed in a black, long sleeved shirt, olive drab cargo pants, and massive boots that look like they’re made for smashing skulls. He has an athletic bag slung over his shoulder, and John gets a glimpse of a brown wrist brace covering half of one his right forearm. 

And the scars. The scars are still there. 

He knows it’s a little sick, the way he’s so fascinated by them, but John can’t help it. He’s always been… _intrigued_ by injuries. How they happen, how to heal them, how to keep them from happening again. It’s why he got into sports medicine in the first place. It’s only natural that he wonders about Bane’s. Still, openly staring probably isn’t the best idea, and he’s about to turn around when Crane beats him to the punch.

“Tell me, Mr. Blake. Did I miss the portion of your contract that states ogling the players is part of your work duties?” John has to actually clench his teeth together to keep the annoyed reply back. If John’s job is 90% a dream, Crane is the 10% that makes it a nightmare. He’s the lead consulting doctor and, technically, John’s boss. 

John’s checks the clock in the corner before turning around, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “There’s still ten minutes left before the staff meeting. I was just checking out the new guy before heading in.”

“Yes,” Crane says, managing to make just that one word drip with layers of condescension and contempt, “I can see that.”

If John put together the number of times he’s had to slowly count to ten around Crane, the total would probably be up in the high thousands. As much as John would love to lay into the good doctor, though, he’s learned that responding to any of the digs only gives Crane more of an incentive to terrorize and just makes things worse. Refusing to rise to the bait, however, usually sends the him on his way. 

He keep his tone bored and uninterested, meeting Crane's strange blue eyes unflinchingly as he speaks. “Do you want me to come into the meeting early?” John's flat response does its job and the doctor simply crooks a finger at him ( _like a wayward dog - seriously, fuck him._ ) and heads into the conference room. 

John remains in the locker room for the final eight minutes, out of a mixture of spite, pettiness, and his lingering curiosity. He keeps half an eye on the proceedings, managing to at least he’s not blatantly gape at the man anymore. Instead, John pretends to text someone. Sadly, it’s only _slightly_ more dignified. 

The time runs out and Bane is still being shown around. The OL has been almost completely silent the entire time, answering Gordon’s questions mostly with a mixture of nods and shakes of his head. While the crowd of players around him has thinned out, he’s still busy enough with the coach that John casually trying to introduce himself would look strange.

John goes into the conference room, ignoring the sarcastic greeting he gets from Crane in favor of one last glance over his shoulder, just catching the back of Bane’s head as he follows Gordon into the showers. It’s disappointing, but only slightly. John will have plenty of time to introduce himself later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [Sibilant!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant).

Crane’s meetings always last about twice as long as they need to. The only thing that the doctor likes more than condescending to everyone around him, is hearing himself talk and making a captive audience listen. John’s gotten pretty good at tuning out the unnecessary bits, listening for the increased bitterness in his tone when he’s about to passive-aggressively insult the higher ups, the self-satisfaction when he’s stroking his own ego, and the smug superiority when he’s outright mocking his own staff. 

When that starts, John checks out. He doodles a lot, but watching Selina file her nails while she oozes disinterest at Crane is distracting enough when he gets bored of drawing. He’s doing a bit of both when he heard Crane say ‘Bane’ and his attention clicks back into gear. Crane is frowning at the notes in his hand, obviously not pleased by whatever information he’s about to share.

“While we will be handling the bulk of the training work for Bane, it seems that Coach Gordon, in his _infinite_ wisdom, has allowed Bane to bring in his own bodywork staff,” Crane said, looking at Selina with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps your poor reputation has preceded you, Ms. Kyle.”

Selina’s emery board pauses and she gives Crane the kind of smirk that promises a whole host of unpleasantness. “It usually does.”

“That means,” Crane continues, moving on as though Selina had said nothing, “that he will be using our facilities after practices and games. Let’s hope he takes more care with the equipment than all of you.”

That’s…weird. All the paranoia and hyper vigilance over performance enhancing drugs makes the League wary about bringing in any professionals who haven’t been personally hired and contracted by their people. If Bane is being allowed to bring in his own staff, he must have given Gordon one hell of a reason.

The puzzle just keeps on getting bigger and bigger.

“Mr. Blake.”

He’s just starting to glaze out of the conversation, thoughts on Bane and his mysterious bodywork specialist, but that snaps him right back into the moment. “Yeah?” He answers, pen tapping impatiently against his notepad.

“Since you seem to have enough free time on your hands to loiter in the locker room,” Crane says, eying the still bouncing pen distastefully, “you will be adding our newest player to your workload. His PT will be coming in at noon to meet with you.”

John rolls his eyes because of course Crane would think giving John work was some sort of punishment. He doesn’t understand that John loves his job, loves working with the players to keep them in peak physical condition and helping them get back on their feet when they’re injured. For Crane, this job is just a tool to demonstrate his own power and status. It pisses John off.

But it seems, this time, Crane’s dickosity is working in John’s favor.

“Yeah, Crane. Whatever you say. This PT have a name? Or am I supposed to guess?” John asks. Crane seems taken aback, almost disappointed by John’s lack of annoyance over his power play. John probably should fake some, but he’s gone four years without sucking up to this sadistic asshole and he’s not about to start now. 

“Mr. Barsad.” Crane doesn’t give him any other information before gathering up his papers, giving the rest of the room once last, scornful glance. “That’s all. Get to work.”

***

There’s no time to wait around in the locker room after Crane lets them out. The team’s morning meeting is just ending, which means John has to haul ass to get his equipment onto the field before the players start practice. Even moving double time, he only just finishes before the team hits the field.

They come out in a group, like always, split into offense and defense with Jim leading them to the field. Bane is smack dab in the middle, looking even larger decked out in his shoulder pads, his helmet held loosely in one arm.

It’s business as usual for the first forty minutes – stretching and warm up drills sending the players back and forth across the AstroTurf – but once they get into actual practice, John can tell something is different. They start off with 40 yard dash times, first of all. Not just the backs, either. Every single player, even the tackles and linemen run the drill, the assistant SC coach, Ramirez, dutifully marking down each player’s time.

Bane is fast. And yeah, you have to be quick to be a lineman – quick to get out formation, get where you the QB needs you to be, and hit the other guy – but Bane is something else. John’s over on the other side of the field, so he can’t check the times, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Bane’s time matched that of their wide receiver. It seems impossible for someone so big to move that way. If John hadn’t watched Bane all but _teleport_ down the forty yards with his own two eyes, he’s not sure he would believe it.

“Good, good!” Jim calls out as Bane jogs back in line. Damn right, ‘good’. Gordon will probably be writing the man love letters before the day is out.

After warm ups the team breaks up into their position sections. Defense goes with defense, offense goes with offense, and the various coaches assigned to each follow them out. Bane, though, hangs back with Gordon and two of the assistant coaches. John figures it’s just a check in, but John quickly realizes it’s something else when Gordon has bags brought out and they set up in the end zone and start running combine drills.

John only has time to think – _What the hell is Gordon up to?_ \- before one of the practice squad members turns his ankle on a passing drill and John has to jog out to deal with it. The day only picks up from there, and John splits his time between dealing with the players and keeping an eye on Bane and Gordon at the far end of the field.

And John has to be seeing things wrong because those are running back drills Gordon is putting Bane through.

Twelve-o-clock sneaks up on John and he has to sprint from the field to the main hall in order to make his meeting on time. He spots the mysterious PT immediately, waiting straight backed and patient in the entry way, and John walks over with a friendly smile. “Mr. Barsad, right? John Blake. I’ll be working with you on Mr. Bane’s fitness and training needs.”

Barsad gives him a curt nod and picks up the duffel bag by his feet. “Which way to the facilities?” He asks, not even bothering to extend his hand for a shake. John laughs.

“Jeeze, man. If you’d cut the small talk we could get going,” he jokes, but Barsad doesn’t even crack a smile, merely arching one eyebrow and waiting. John’s smile falters a little. “Yeah, okay, follow me.”

He leads Barsad into the locker room, pointing out Bane’s locker before giving him a tour of the health and recovery facilities. Barsad is…well, not silent, not exactly. He asks questions about the equipment and the resources available, but pointedly ignores all of John’s attempts at engaging in an actual conversation. After fifteen minutes of this, John is just about fed up.

“So, that’s it. You’re welcome to use any of the equipment that you need and if you can’t figure it out, flag one of the trainers down and we’ll help you out. Any questions before we go over Bane’s bodywork regimen?” John asks, expecting a shake of the head in response, and slightly surprised when Barsad actually nods.

“I will require a private room for Bane’s treatment, both after practices and games.” It’s not a request and alarm bells start going off in John’s head. Players don’t get “private treatment” in the locker rooms. It’s part of the whole transparency thing that the League has been working hard to promote since the big steroid scandal a few years ago. If Bane’s post game therapy has to be done away from private eyes, chances are it isn’t good.

John feels hugely disappointed. Looks like Bane is just another ‘roided up football player who thinks he’s above the rules.

Well, fuck that.

“Listen. I don’t know what kind of deal you and Bane had going in Blüdhaven,” John starts, lowering his voice even though there’s no one else around, “but in Gotham we don’t turn a blind eye to that kind of crap. You want to “treat” him, you can do it where everyone can see you.”

Barsad smirks, and by God, would you look at that. The man is actually capable of an expression besides professional disinterest. “You think I’m his drug dealer?” He asks, actually sounding amused. “Or perhaps his prostitute?”

And no, John’s thoughts hadn’t quite been going in _that_ direction, but they sure as hell are now. He looks the other man over and yeah, Barsad is attractive. Dark hair, clear blue eyes. Nice lips. John had figured that Bane was a red blooded, whiskey, rib eye, and pussy type of man, but he can imagine the picture that Barsad and Bane would make together.

John’s mouth goes a little dry. He licks his lips and swallows. Yeah, he can picture that really well.

“Either way, that type of shit doesn’t go on in this locker room,” John says, proud of himself that his voice doesn’t waver even a little bit. “I don’t care how big a signing bonus Bane has.”

Barsad’s eyes turn cold, his smile meaner. “You do not know my brother, and so I will let this pass. The next time, I will not.” John holds Barsad’s gaze, and it’s obvious the other man isn’t bluffing. John doesn’t think he’s lying about Bane, either, and he feels a small modicum of relief. Still, John isn’t going to let this go on just a hunch.

“I’m in the room. I’ll supervise,” John says, and Barsad frowns. “It’s that or the main PT room. You don’t like it, take it up with Gordon.”

Barsad looks him over, assessing. After a beat, he nods.

Now the only problem is finding a place that he can stick Barsad and Bane after games. The training center is easy – the players tend to leave fairly quickly following the end of practice, so it won’t be an issue to commandeer one of the lounges. Finding a place for after games is going to be a little trickier, especially when they play away from home. Most places will probably have a storage room that they can clear out, but that will mean calling the facilities manager beforehand and explaining the situation, and even then it’s not guaranteed that they won’t say no. The only other place that seems doable is the media room.

They are, in John’s opinion, the most idiotic additions to any stadium. They are supposed to be used for interviews following games – a small, quiet place away from the noise of the rowdy teams – but nobody ever uses them. The reporters prefer the chaotic, genuine atmosphere of the locker room, and the players are usually too exhausted to care where the hell they give an interview as long as it doesn’t require too much movement. It shouldn’t be too much trouble to get Bane in, worked on, and out before anyone bothers them.

John explains as much to Barsad, who makes a noise of agreement. “That will suffice. I will provide my own table.”

They move to the conference room after that to go over the boring stuff – practice and game schedules, transportation logistics, reimbursement procedures for supplies – basically everything that John wishes he could just erase out from his job. Thankfully, Barsad gets everything the first time John says it, absorbing the information like a stoic little sponge. It goes by quickly, and forty-five minutes after twelve, they’re finished.

“Well,” John says, putting his papers back into their folder, “I’m sure working with you is going to be a thrill a minute. You staying here for the next six hours, or you want to come out to the field?” Barsad’s posture is military perfect as he stares levelly at John. He seems to realize something, then, a slow smirk growing on his face.

“You have not spoken with Bane yet, have you Blake?” He says. John’s brow furrows in confusion, not seeing how this is relevant to what he’s said and honestly having expected some sort of insult in return. Still, he shakes his head in response.

“Not yet, no. Why?” John asks.

“Then this is not a meeting I wish to miss. Lead the way,” Barsad says, and John does. He looks sidelong at him as they walk through the facilities out toward the field, and try as he might, he can’t exactly pinpoint the expression on Barsad’s face. One thing is clear, though. Whatever Barsad thinks is going to happen out there – good or bad – he’s looking forward to watching it.

John feels a clench of nervousness deep in his gut, and he almost turns to Barsad to tell him he’s changed his mind, Barsad can wait in the facility until practice is over and John will just introduce himself to Bane later, but they’re already on the field and it’s too late.

Bane has spotted them and is walking over.

John swallows, but doesn’t break stride. Bane’s just some guy, after all. It’s going to be fine. He’s just a player and everything is going to be friendly and perfectly professional. John doesn’t have anything to be afraid of.

Bane stops in front of them and Barsad closes the gap of space between them, clasping Bane’s forearm with the type of familiarity only born from a long friendship.

“Hello, brother,” Bane greets, voice deep and rumbling over the words. His expression is surprisingly warm as he looks at Barsad. It cools when it turns to John, becoming guarded.

“And who is this?” John isn’t sure who the question is directed at, but his attention is all on John, pointed and penetrating.

Right, nothing be afraid of at all.


	3. Chapter 3

John, as he usually does when he feels out of his element, makes the first move. He sticks his hand out in the space between him and the larger man, and he doesn’t even want to imagine what his face is doing right then. He’s going for the middle point between warmth and professionalism that Selina always says makes him look constipated (he practiced in the mirror, though, and she’s full of shit. It looks fine, damn it.) “I’m John. Uh, Blake. John Blake. I train you.”

Oh God. _Rein it the fuck in._

“I mean,” John tries again when Bane neither takes his hand or laughs in his face, “I’m your new trainer. I’ll be working with you on your health this year.” 

That’s at least coherent, but Bane still doesn’t take his hand, and after a beat more, John drops it.

“I am sure you will do your utmost,” Bane finally says, and his voice is at once both disinterested and condescending. “Barsad will provide you with any information you may need. If you’d excuse us.” The brush off is so out of nowhere, so undeserved, that it takes John a second to realize that Bane thinks they’re done here, his attention already on the smirking PT. As if John is an annoyance to be deferred to his staff.

Well, fuck _that _.__

__The nerves drop away, the hard-ass medical professional persona John had had to cultivate as an intern snapping into place. “Actually, I’ll need my information straight from you. In fact, we’ll be meeting after practice today to go over your medical history and any injuries you’ve sustained during your football career,” John says, voice hard and brooking no argument._ _

__Bane’s attention snaps back to him like a bolt on a rubber band. The disinterest is gone now, and Bane’s gaze is calculating. “I am unavailable today,” he says, this time waiting for John’s response instead of immediately dismissing him. Good. Bane is going to learn really quickly that John’s size is not an indicator of the amount of shit he can stir up._ _

__“Really? Check again. Pretty sure it’s free and clear from four to five thirty,” John doesn’t even give Bane the option of responding to that, brushing past him and walking toward the other trainers grouped around the recovery tent. He’s five steps away when he suddenly turns around, walking backward as he throws one last little bit out there. “Don’t worry about finding me, either. I’ll come get you myself.”_ _

__John turns and starts lightly jogging. He thinks he hears Barsad laughing behind him, but he doesn’t look back to check.  
_ _

_***_

__Gordon takes John aside once practice has wrapped. John scowls, because of course Bane ran to the coach and complained. Of course he did._ _

__“I know what you’re going to say,” John gets in before Gordon has even started speaking, “but he was being an asshole and I was professional about telling him what was up, okay? I don’t know what he said, but that’s what happened.”_ _

__John is expecting some sort of placating bullshit about yes, John was and Bane might have been but they were going to be working together and needed to get along and blah blah blah, but Gordon doesn’t say any of that. Instead he shrugs, laughing. “Whatever it is you’re talking about, it’s not why I want to talk to you. Let me actually get a word in, rookie.” John flushes, but Gordon’s tone is warm, relaxed. Practice was good and he’s pleased._ _

__“Bane’s training needs are going to be a little different than what you may have been expecting. I want to sit in on your meeting today and go over why,” Gordon says, and John can only nod. What is he going to say, ‘no’? Part of him is a little disappointed that he’s not going to get a one-on-one with Bane yet, but the larger part is curious. Gordon has been cagey all day, and John wants to know what’s up._ _

__“Good man,” and Gordon sends him off with a friendly clap on the shoulder. John finishes packing up his supplies and hurries to the locker room. There are sweaty feet to be cut free from tape and bindings. God, some days John can’t believe his job is so glamorous._ _

__He’s halfway through the players waiting to be de-taped and iced up, when he feels a presence at his back and looks up to find Barsad watching him. “What?” John snaps, in no mood for the other man’s bullshit, but Barsad merely glances to the doorway and shrugs._ _

__“You insisted on being present for Bane’s treatment. Now is the time. Come or do not, I’m not waiting any longer.”_ _

__Shit, right. John can’t believe he’d forgotten. He glances around at the men waiting and feels like a one armed man trying to juggle a dozen balls._ _

__“Just…hold on a second, okay? I just need to grab someone to take care of this. What lounge are you in?” John asks, looking for a spare trainer or even an intern, but everyone is off doing their own work. Barsad tells him, and John nods. He tells the next man up to hold on and ducks into the massage room._ _

__Selina is washing her hands, her last client sitting up and shrugging back into his shirt. John doesn’t see anyone else waiting around so he goes for it. “Hey,” he says as he walks up behind her (John learned not to sneak up on Selina in his first week as an intern). “I need a favor.”_ _

__“I’m so glad you feel close enough to me to share that,” Selina replies, drying her hands on a paper towel and tossing it in the trash. “but unfortunately doing you favors isn’t in my job description.” The mock woe in her voice would annoy him if he didn’t already know exactly what she was angling for._ _

__“Yeah, whatever. Cover me for an hour and you’ll have five days of free cappuccinos ready and waiting when you get here in the morning,” John says, ignoring Selina’s smirk. He usually puts up more a fight, bargains a little, but he doesn’t have the time now and he’s fine giving her what she wants without a fuss every once in a while. “Deal?”_ _

__Selina shrugs. “Make sure they’re still hot when I get them, Birdie.”_ _

__That’s good enough for John and he hurries out and toward the lounge, not bothering to throw out a customary thank you. Gratitude tends to be wasted on Selina’s overwhelming cynicism._ _

__The lounge door is locked when John gets there, but one knock and it’s clicking open. The room is dim, lights off and blinds drawn. Barsad has the table set up in the middle and Bane is already on top, stripped bare except for a small towel pushed down around his waist and ass. John’s had plenty of experience with the male form and naked, good looking players strutting around in front of him, but even still, his pulse picks up and his palms go a little sweaty from the sight of Bane relaxed and practically naked._ _

__Seems that even the offensive lineman’s rudeness hasn’t quite dampened John’s interest._ _

__He jerks his eyes away and steps fully into the room. Barsad busies himself in the corner, setting up his supplies, and John knows he should go and look them over, make sure everything is up to snuff, but he’s still distracted by Bane and those miles of bare skin. He lets himself get closer and look a little longer and _fuck_ \- _ _

__The scar that bisects Bane’s back is thick, ridged, and speaks of an injury so horrific that John can’t really wrap his head around it. Nowhere in John’s careful study of Bane’s career had he seen anything like this even briefly glossed over. He either got this scar before he started playing football, or Bane’s injury is the best kept secret in franchise history._ _

__Barsad clears his throat behind him, startling John out of his thoughts. He’s wandered closer, and his hand is raised, as though he’s about to trace that line with his fingers. Shocked at his own behavior, John snatches his hand back and moves aside to let Barsad take his place. He has a wad of cotton in his hand and he’s dragged a small end table closer, the rest of his tools ready and waiting on top of it._ _

__John looks over the supplies and recognizes the long, metal needles immediately. Acupuncture. Perfectly legal, perfectly safe, maybe not empirically proven to be effective, but John knew plenty of people who swore by it. It seems Bane was one of them._ _

__“Up to your exacting standards, Blake?” Barsad asks as he runs the alcohol swap up and down the line of Bane’s back, over the muscles he’s planning on manipulating. John would gladly roll his eyes and tell Barsad to fuck off, but this is work, not John’s gym. So he just shoots him a look and nods. Barsad seems to read the message though, because that smirk is back._ _

__There are plenty of chars around, so John drags one over and sits down before he embarrasses himself any further. Without any further delay, Barsad gets to work._ _

__John knows a little about the basics of acupuncture, but even with his rudimentary knowledge, he can tell that Barsad is skilled. He slips the needles into the skin and muscle of Bane’s back with barely a grunt from the other man. His hands are deft and quick and before long, Bane looks like a porcupine. Barsad murmurs in a low voice as he works, and no matter how hard John listens, he can’t make any of the words make sense. When Bane begins to speak back, his voice pitched slightly louder than Barsad’s. John understands that they’re speaking in another language. John can’t identify it – not that he probably could pick out any language other than Spanish, or maybe French – and John is wildly curious over what they’re saying. He can only assume that it’s about him._ _

__As Barsad continues to work, John begins to notice the relaxing of Bane’s shoulders, the unclenching of his back, the hard, tight line of him seeming to soften right into the padded table and John suddenly realizes how much pain Bane was in before Barsad began. John wants to kick himself for not noticing beforehand. It’s his job to know when his players are in pain, but Bane had hid it so well._ _

__After roughly forty minutes of Barsad making a pincushion out of the big man, he begins to remove the needles. They drop into a glass jar of disinfectant, and just as quickly as he put them in, they’re gone._ _

__Bane remains prone on the table and Barsad turns, the look he gives John clearly saying that it’s time for him to leave. He doesn’t have to say anymore, already feeling slightly embarrassed for having forced his presence into such an intimate situation. “I’ll be waiting in conference room beta,” John says, and without waiting for or needing a response, he walks out._ _

__***_ _

__While they wait, Gordon and John make small talk. John asks after the older man’s family, as he always does, just for the way the usually serious man lights up when he talks about his son and daughter. John liked Gordon from the moment he met him, and though he wouldn’t exactly call them friends, he knows Gordon likes and respects him in return._ _

__As the minutes stretch on, though, the small talk dies out. John is just wondering if he really is going to have to chase Bane down and strong arm him into the meeting when the door opens and he walks in, back straight and walking as smoothly as if though he hadn’t been in an immense amount of pain only an hour ago._ _

__He takes a seat across from the two of them without a word, reclining and looking expectant. It’s Gordon who clears his throat and starts them off._ _

__“You’re not going into the offensive lineman position on this team,” Gordon says, diving right into the matter at hand with the directness he’s known for. “I’m sure you figured that out, given our discussion before the trade and the drills I put you through today.” He waits for Bane to nod and then continues. “You’ve been wasted in the OL. I timed every single man on the field today, and you’re in the top five in terms of speed, and you handle the ball like you were born with it in your hands. Now, I know your other coaches probably thought you couldn’t keep that speed up with full pads and three quarters under your belt, but I think they’re wrong. I want you as a running back.”_ _

__John must make a sound, because Gordon glances over at him, but the coach isn’t done yet._ _

__“And on the defensive line.”_ _

__Even Bane seems surprised at that. Utility players still exist in the league, sure, but they are few and far between, and usually not put into two such disparate positions. This is a gamble on Gordon’s part, and John knows that if it backfires, the older man is looking at being replaced next season._ _

__“Now, I know this is asking a lot of your body, and I’m not going to force it on you. If you don’t think you can handle it, just say so and we’ll work something else out,” Gordon continues, and John really has to hand it to the man. He’s a crafty son of a bitch. Bane’s eyes narrow and his chin lifts._ _

__“Put me where you like,” is all he says, like his entire career isn’t facing a flip over onto its head. John wonders if Gordon knows about Bane’s pain and his treatment. He wants to bring it up, but he’s not sure exactly what he’d say. Bane has pain after playing? That’s true for most of the guys on the team. This seems different, but John doesn’t know enough about the situation to articulate why. So, he keeps his mouth shut._ _

__“John,” Gordon says, pulling him out of his thoughts, “that is going to mean extra work for you. Bane is going to be worked hard, and I’ll need you to make sure his training regimen is adjusted to reflect that. Look after him, understand?”_ _

__“Of course,” John answers. If this had been his first year, he might be insulted that Gordon thinks he actually needs to tell John that, seeing as how keeping players in tiptop condition is his job anyways. But he knows the system, now. Knows that when something goes wrong, the union is going to look over every single word Gordon said. He’s covering his ass here and John understands._ _

__Satisfied, Gordon stands. “I’ll leave you two to your meeting, then. We’ll talk more on Wednesday. Come in a little early,” he says, shakes both their hands, and then leaves._ _

__Alone, finally, Bane looks at him over the dark oak of the table. They sit in silence and John pointedly doesn’t squirm under that gaze._ _

__“Where’s Mr. Barsad?” John asks, breaking the silence. Though he’d gone over things with the PT earlier in the day, what he witnessed after practice birthed a dozen other questions that John is going to need an answer for._ _

__“Attending to the business this meeting is keeping me from,” Bane answers, and John frowns. Guess he’ll have to ask his questions another day. He wonders if this was done on purpose, but quickly dismisses the thought. Barsad might have been a sarcastic dick, but he was a _blunt_ sarcastic dick. John doubted he’d run away from a little Q and A._ _

__“Guess it’s just you and me, then,” John says, meaning the words to come out deadpan, but something sneaks in – heat, maybe. If Bane notices, he doesn’t say anything, and John quickly pushes his print outs across the table and dives into the standard questions._ _

__They go over Bane’s nutrition, his water intake, the previous injuries listed on his medical record, his fitness routine at home, and what the plan that the strength and conditioning coach had him on. Bane is succinct, answering the questions clearly and without going off on any tangents. John is used to having to guide overly talkative players back in subject, so it’s almost a pleasure to have someone cut so clearly to the point. On the other hand, the less that Bane says, the greater John’s curiosity grows._ _

__All too soon, John is out of information to give and has filled in every blank on his questionnaire. He taps his pen against the table, because he knows what he wants to ask next, but surprisingly nervous about it. Still, John isn’t one for beating around the bush, so when the silence has stretched beyond a normal conversational lull, he just goes for it._ _

__“Your back. What happened?”_ _

__The only change in Bane’s expression is a tightening around his eyes, but John can guess at the annoyance simmering just under the surface. He looks at John, though, not shying away from the question. “I trusted my care to an incompetent doctor. It is not a mistake I plan on repeating.”_ _

__John opens his mouth to ask more, to fish the story out of him however he has to, but Bane’s eyes flick to the clock above the door and he begins gathering up his papers. “Four to five thirty, as you said. Our time is over.”_ _

__John is tempted to argue, insist that Bane stay where he is until John has finished asking his questions, but though he’s stubborn, John isn’t petty. They’ll be working together all year. John will have plenty of time to have his curiosity sated and satisfied._ _

___Sated and satisfied? Of all the damn words in the human language, that's what his mind comes up with._ _ _

__John doesn’t offer any sort of goodbye and Bane doesn’t seek one out. He leaves and John stays where he is. Once Bane has passed the line of the window, John leans forward and rests his forehead on the table._ _

__Fuck, he’s in so much trouble._ _


	4. Chapter 4

John isn’t much a drinker, generally speaking. He likes a beer or three after work now and again, but having spent the majority of his education learning about health and the body and the very many ways you can fuck it up, it’s not something he indulges in all that often.  
  
But for everything there is a season, and if you can’t drink away your embarrassment and professional angst after almost springing wood in the middle of an _acupuncture demonstration_ , then fuck. What was alcohol even invented for?  
  
The parking lot at Daffy’s is crammed full when John gets there. It takes him a second to figure out why, and then he’s smacking his forehead against the plastic of the steering wheel.  
  
 _Bane’s party._  
  
“Idiot,” John mutters under his breath, still leaning against the wheel and listening to the car settle. He could leave, of course. The parking lot is empty, except for a straggler or two, and he hasn’t been spotted. It’d be nothing at all to just turn the key, drive off, and settle into a nice bubble of self-pity with the half-full bottle of cooking wine in his fridge and the six pack stashed away in his cupboard.  
  
Okay, no. That is not how this is going to go down.  
  
John was here first, alright? He’s not going to skirt around Bane and skip out of team outings just because of a stupid fucking attraction. John isn’t a teenager anymore, he’s an athletic trainer with the fucking NFL. He’s not running away.  
  
He shoves the car door open, gets out, and slams it back shut, with way too much force, but lets the energy from the overreaction carry him across the parking lot and into the bar.  
  
The small space is as packed as the parking lot, and it’s impossible to pick out Bane from the door. The sheer amount of large, burly men littering the room provide the perfect camouflage. Bruce, however, is perfectly noticeable. He’s perched on top of a stool at the bar, glass in hand and the bored-but-trying-not-to-look-bored expression on his face. John grins. Same old Bruce.  
  
“Thought you weren’t going to show,” Bruce says when John hops up onto the stool next to him.  
  
“Oh, you know how it is,” John replies, only half paying attention as he waves the bartender down and signals for a beer. “No rest for the wicked.” He quickly knocks his bottle against Bruce’s before tipping it back, chugging down half the bitter brew in one go. He knows Bruce is giving him that look, the pointed one that asks questions without the quarterback ever having to open his mouth.  
  
“Crane,” John lies quickly, because that’s a sure fire way to stop the conversation before it even starts. Bruce hates Crane just as much as John does. He nods his head, accepting the explanation with an ease that John is pretty sure he wouldn’t manage if John told him the real reason behind the tense line of his shoulders.  
  
Unfortunately, lying to Wayne isn’t really the best long term strategy. Bruce is a canny son-of-a-bitch. No matter the lie, or half-truth, he always figures it out, always. But, as much as John wants to get this crap off his chest, something tells him that blurting out _I want to hump the new guy’s leg until I come on him_ isn’t the sort of thing you should say to an NFL quarterback, even if he is your friend.  
  
They shoot the shit for awhile, going back and forth on meaningless topics, while John not so subtly scans the room for Bane. He’s on his second beer when he realizes that the running back really, truly is not there.  
  
“Where’s Bane?” John asks before thinking better of it, leaning in so Bruce can hear him over the noise of twenty-something football players getting drunk.  
  
Bruce shrugs and, when John continues to look at him expectantly, points over to the far corner. “Ask Dent. It was his turn to organize.”  
  
John knows he should leave it alone. It doesn’t matter why Bane didn’t come. In fact, in the list of things that John should give a shit about, it should come in dead last.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” he sighs, getting up. Curiosity has always been John’s downfall.  
  
The three tackles Dent has been holding court with are just leaving when John sits down, off to get shots, leaving John with the full wattage of the Harvey Dent smile turned on him. “Blake, hey. Pull up a chair.”  
  
“Dent. Nice to see your elbow looking better. You feeling ready for Opal City next week?” John asks, grabbing one of the spare glasses on the table and filling it from the pitcher.  
  
“Well, considering all I have to do is shout a bunch of gibberish and then get the ball to Wayne, I’m not too worried,” Dent replies, with his trademark brand of self-deprecation. John has to laugh in return, because they both know what a crock that is. For all he plays at modesty, Dent has one of the most impressive tactical minds in the league.  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll manage,” John snorts, leaning back in his chair. “How’s Rachel? Getting tired of the wedding shit, yet?”  
  
Like always, it’s as though John’s spoken some magical word. Dent’s eyes go a bit soft, and his smile turns uncharacteristically dopey.  “Rachel...she’s good. Wedding stuff is almost done. We just picked our cake.”  
  
“Well, the tabloids are saying you’re going to elope any minute,” John says. Dent rolls his eyes, the sappy look leaving him as he snaps back into reality.  
  
“Yeah, well, they also say that our new OL is part of a satanic cult. You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”  
  
John’s seen those stories before, splashed over the pages of The Mirror and The Sun - the same papers that run stories about Bruce having multiple personalities. It’s nothing more than what he expects from the assholes that hang around outside the hotels during away games. But the shit they write about Bane...even for tabloids, it’s pretty ridiculous. And cruel.  
  
“Speaking of , where is the mysterious Mr. Bane? You know you’re actually supposed to invite the guest of honor to their welcome party, right?” John asks, and has to jerk back when Dent tries to swat him upside the head.  
  
“Try not to be a smart ass, Blake,” Dent says, sprawling back against the booth, arms stretched over the back. “I invited him, he said no.”  
  
John tries to school his face into an expression of surprise, and he only has to fake about half of it. “That’s...weird. He give any reason why?”  
  
“Said he was busy. I don’t know. He’s not all that chatty.” Dent opens his mouth to say more, but then the tackles are back and slamming boards of shots down on the table.  
  
“Bottoms up, pretty boy!” Someone shouts, pressing a shot into John’s hand.  
  
It gets kind of blurry after that.  
  
***  
  
 _Bzzzt, bzzzt, bzzzt._  
  
At first, John isn’t sure what the sound that brings him awake is. All he knows is that each buzz feels like a pair of scissors being driven directly into the pain cortex of his brain over and over again.  
  
“Fuck, no,” John mutters - whines, really - as though that will help make the sound stop in any way. He flings a hand out from the mound of covers he’s buried in, rooting around on the side table until his fingers close over the angrily vibrating phone.  
  
The sound he makes isn’t really a ‘hello’, or even a ‘what’. It’s more of a desperate, annoyed huff of air with a half formed word stuck on the end.  
  
“And a good morning to you, Mr. Blake.”  
  
God, _fucking_ \- and of course, the one person John could have gone his whole day (whole life, really) without hearing is on the other end. He flips the blankets back and glances at his alarm clock.  
  
“Why are you calling me at six in the morning, Crane? There’s no practice today,” John nearly growls, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the light. The massive headache already underway only dims slightly.  
  
“Yes, well, given your new responsibilities, I thought it would be prudent for you to come in today to get a jumpstart on your paperwork.”  
  
“No. Seriously, Crane. I’m not-”  
  
“May I remind you, Mr. Blake, that your contract clearly states that your schedule is subject to change depending on the staffing needs of the team. If you have an issue with your contract, then perhaps you need to speak to the general manager. I’m sure the two of you can come to an arrangement that will give you more free time than you know what to do with,” Crane rattles off, managing to sound both bored and sadistically gleeful at the same time.  
  
John is too fucking tired for this shit. “Fine,” he groans, rubbing roughly at his eyes, “you win. Give me an hour and-,”  
  
“Be here in thirty.”  
  
There’s silence, and John knows Crane has clicked off. He sets the alarm on his phone to go off in fifteen minutes. Fuck the shower - Crane can just put up with smelling his rank ass.  
  
The next time he wakes up - quickly pressing buttons until his phone stops making noise - there’s a text waiting for him.  
  
 _Don’t forget to pick up your car from the bar. - B.W._  
  
John groans and almost throws his phone at the wall. Today is just shaping up to be perfect. He wants a god damn do-over.  
  
***  
  
The good thing about working for the NFL is that John has access to some of the most modern fitness and medical evaluation software on the market. The league server is brilliant.  X-rays, blood test results, physical exam notes, medications — even video clips documenting game injuries — all compiled into one database that John can access anywhere with internet. If John could fuck a computer system, it’d be that one.  
  
Of course, for all the recent innovative pushes, there’s still way too much fucking paperwork.  
  
John muddles his way through it slowly, double checking each figure before he marks it down onto a player’s file. Usually, he doesn’t mind the busy work all that much. It is what it is, and John knew he’d have to do a fair bit of it in this job before he took it, so there’s not much use in complaining.  
  
But today, John is hungover, and each mark of the pen is just a reminder of all the other times he could be doing this shit - like during his regular work hours. It’s just another, petty, vindictive punishment from Crane for some dreamed up slight.  
  
The only thing keeping him from finally snapping and telling Crane to go fuck himself, is the fact that the doctor is nowhere to be found. The only sign he’d even been at the training center at all was a note on top of the stack of papers on his desk.  
  
 _Print legibly._  
  
Asshole.  
  
John is so preoccupied with writing that it’s not until he hears a soft, gruff ‘ _ahem’_ that he realizes he has an audience.  
  
“Coach,” he says, dropping the pen and lifting his hand in greeting. “Didn’t see you there.”  
  
“That’s alright, rookie. Just wasn’t expecting to see you in today. Everything alright?” Gordon asks from the door, standing just inside the entrance.  
  
“Yeah,” John is quick to assure, because Gordon has enough on his plate without worrying about him, “everything is fine. Just getting a headstart on some stuff.”  
  
“Good man.” Gordon steps further into the room, looking John over with those overly keen eyes that can pick out the slightest flaw in a player’s form. Of course, Gordon doesn’t need any great degree of perception to see that John looks like shit. Pale skin, red eyes, greasy hair - it’s blatantly obvious to anyone who looks what John was doing all of last night. He tries not to squirm under the scrutiny. Even though there’s no fucking reason for it - John didn’t do anything _wrong_ \- he feels guilt settle into the pit of his stomach.  
  
Jesus, John hates the thought of disappointing Gordon.  
  
Gordon sits down on the small bench across from John, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. “What do you think of our new player?” He asks, and John blinks, floundering a moment because it’s not what he expected to hear.  
  
“Bane?” John asks dumbly, feeling his face heat when Gordon just lifts an eyebrow. “Right, of course Bane. Uh. He seems...dedicated. I’m sure he’ll fit in well with the team.” It’s true enough, even if it isn’t exactly candid. Gordon frowns, and shakes his head.  
  
“Don’t give me that canned bullshit, John. I know you know this game, I know you follow the season. Now, tell me, what do you think of him as a player?”  
  
John sighs and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I think we should have picked him up four years ago.”  
  
There’s a small beat of silence, and then Gordon smiles. “You’re not wrong, son. You’re not wrong.”  
  
The smile fades when he takes a small sniff, and then another. “Maybe it’s time for a break,” he says kindly, and then, as if his meaning isn’t clear enough, “feel free to use the showers.”  
  
John bursts out laughing. It’s either that or hide under his desk.  
  
***  
  
Given that most of John’s time in the training facility is spent following the team around, it’s rare for him to see the showers when they aren’t packed full of naked, loud football players shoving at each other. In fact, it’s a little eerie - the water echoes as it pounds against the linoleum, the frosted glass between this and the locker room weirdly absent of the silhouettes of  players changing. It’s nice. Strange, but nice.  
  
The fact that there seems to be a never ending supply of hot water is even nicer. John  _luxuriates_ in it, there’s no other word for it, content in the knowledge that he could stand here for hours and the temperature would barely dip.  
  
John’s half tempted to start skipping his morning shower more often.  
  
He’s scrubbing a handful of shampoo into his hair, when he hears the door to the showers swing open, the pneumatic hinge _shissh_ ing softly as it closes behind whoever has come in.  
  
Tilting his head back to keep the lather out of his eyes, John turns and comes face to chest with Bane.  
  
He’s naked - _of course he’s fucking naked, this is a shower,_ John thinks numbly - hand resting on the knob of the next shower over, frowning at John. There’s sweat on the shaved dome of his head, little beads clinging to the skin, and John’s eyes skate down the rest of him looking for more before his brain kicks into gear with how fucking inappropriate that is. It's like someone else is controlling his body, though, and his eyes just keep drifting lower. _Oh, you idiot, don't go there, don't-  
  
_ But he does go there. He absolutely goes there. It's only a second, a quick glance at the soft length between Bane's thighs, but it's long enough to see that the defensive lineman is...definitely proportional _._ John looks up guiltily.  
  
Bane is staring back.  
  
“You’re not supposed to be here,” John blurts out, glad his skin is already pinked from the heat of the water, making the growing blush on his face less noticeable.  
  
A flick of his wrist and Bane’s shower is on. He steps underneath, the water parting around his bulk, running down his bare skin in rivulets and fuck John needs to stop _staring-_  
  
“Neither are you,” Bane says back, and it takes John a moment to process, caught up as he is in openly gawking. “Gordon wished to review the playbook with me, given the change in my responsibilities.”  
  
Surprisingly, the silence after Bane finishes speaking seems expectant, rather than final. John turns and tilts back into the spray, washing the shampoo out of his hair, watching Bane in his peripheral vision.  
  
“Crane called me in for some busy work,” John offers after a moment, slowly carding his fingers through his hair to make sure it was fully rinsed. “He does that.”  
  
“Crane,” Bane sounds thoughtful, the snap of a cap and the hollow sound of water hitting plastic punctuating his pause, “the Scarecrow.”  
  
John laughs, startled, and looks at Bane full on. Scarecrow was Crane’s nickname amongst the players, and while it’s not the first time John’s heard it, he’s surprised Bane’s picked up on it so quickly. “Yeah, but don’t let him hear you call him that.”  
  
Bane considers him, large hands moving while he stares, rubbing along his chest and in the hollows under his arms. “You fear this man?” He asks, and John can hear a note of contempt there. John snorts and shakes his head.  
  
“No, but he’s not my doctor.”  
  
“I can handle the Scarecrow,” Bane says after a beat, and John’s surprised to hear a soft note of amusement in his voice. John smirks in return.  
  
“I’m sure you can. What you’ve really gotta worry about is handling me.” John means it as a joke, but when he looks back at Bane, any trace of amusement is gone. That intent look is back on Bane’s face, boring right into John.  
  
When he speaks, Bane’s already deep voice is an octave lower.  
  
“Yes. I am beginning to see that.”  
  
John turns his hips and keeps his eyes off of Bane for the rest of his shower.  
  
***  
  
Even after John is dried off and dressed, it’s hard to shake the image of Bane - naked and fucking _wet_ \- out of his mind’s eye. Thankfully, John wore track pants to work, and the line of his half hard cock isn’t obvious under the nylon.  
  
He tries to convince himself that he was imagining things, that his dick was making him read into things, but Bane’s words - the _way_ he’d said them - makes it hard for John to believe his own denials.  
  
It’s distracting, and John ends up spending ten minutes packing up to go home, something that he usually has done in half that time. He’s slowly shuffling the last of his paperwork into a pile, when he feels a shiver up the back of his spine.  
  
“You came here in a taxi,” Bane says from behind him, and John tries not to jump out of his fucking skin.  
  
“Jesus Christ, man, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on people?” John snaps, turning around. Bane is standing in the doorway, where Gordon had been earlier, looking...unsure, of all things. John forces himself to relax, annoyance draining away. “Sorry. You... startled me.”  
  
Bane doesn’t apologize, just shifts on his feet. “This morning I saw you arrive in a taxi,” he repeats, and John nods, bemused.  
  
“Yeah, my, uh, car is at a bar. There was a party last night. I’m gonna pick it up on my way home.”  
  
“If you would like a ride...” Bane begins, shifting again, letting the pause draw out. When John doesn’t respond, he looks off to the side, and all of a sudden his entire posture seems to straighten. Even his jaw tightens, the ridged scars stretching minutely as the muscles in his face shift.  
  
“I will take you to your vehicle. Come,” Bane says, this time with iron in his voice, before he turns and walks off.  
  
“Hey, Jesus, wait a second!” John yells, grabbing his things and hurrying after.  
  
***  
  
Bane won’t hear any refusal. John tries, a couple times, but Bane simply shakes his head and repeats that he will bring John to his car. After the third time, John gives in. It’s cheaper than taking a taxi, at least. Though, as John stands next to Bane and waits for the car to arrive, awkwardness pooling around them in their silence, he wonders.  
  
Eventually, a black town car stops in front of them, and in the driver’s seat is Barsad.  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” John says. He means to say it under his breath, but his intentions get lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and it comes out loud and clear.  
  
Barsad looks from him, to Bane, and then back again. Slowly, he rolls up the window.  
  
Bane opens the back passenger door. There’s a horrifying moment when John thinks he’s - fuck, _holding it open_ for John - like he’s a chick, but then Bane catches his eyes, looks away, and slides in. John follows after.  
  
John rattles off the directions as soon as he buckles in. Daffy’s is only ten minutes away by car, but in the oppressive quiet,  very second seems to triple in length.  
  
“So, you’re an acupuncturist and a driver?” John finally asks, leaning forward and putting a hand on the driver’s chair, desperate to break the silence.  
  
“I wear many hats,” Barsad replies. “Sit back.”  
  
“Isn’t that a conflict of interes-,” the words get cut off as Barsad brakes suddenly, smacking John’s head lightly against the seat.  
  
“Sit back,” Barsad repeats, and this time John does.  
  
He doesn’t try again for the rest of the drive, and when they eventually pull into the parking lot of Daffy’s, John is so relieved he thinks he might kiss the pavement.  
  
“Well, thanks,” he says as he clambers out of the car, bag slung over his shoulder. He turns around once he’s out, and finds Bane watching him, jaw tight with an unreadable expression.  
  
Later, John won’t be able to figure out what makes him stop halfway in closing the door and start rooting around in the front pocket of his bag. Instinct, or something in Bane’s face, maybe, but whatever it is, it has him pulling out one of his business cards and leaning back in the car - one knee on the seat - and holding it out to Bane.  
  
“If you ever want someone to show you around,” John says, when Bane hesitantly takes the card. “I don’t have to just be your trainer, you know.”  
  
Bane turns the small white rectangle over in his hand, considering.  
  
“Is that not a conflict of interest?” Bane finally says, repeating John’s question from before, and John just smirks and shrugs.  
  
He waits for a second or two, but when Bane just nods again, John closes the door. A moment later, the town car is gone.  
  
It’s stupid, probably, John sticking his nose where it isn’t needed, but, as John digs his keys out of his pocket and strolls to his car, he can’t help feeling that, for the first time today, he actually did something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [Sibilant!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant) Find me on tumblr at [smugrobotics.tumblr.com](http://www.smugrobotics.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/3076.html?thread=2784516#t2784516


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